


Temper

by achoo_gesundheit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Muslim Character, POC James Potter, Remus Lupin Likes Chocolate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-09 22:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achoo_gesundheit/pseuds/achoo_gesundheit
Summary: Remus Lupin never attended Hogwarts. Peter Pettigrew was never a secret keeper. James and Lily Potter did not die on Halloween, 1981, and Harry Potter grew up silent and scared and loved.





	1. Sirius Black

**Author's Note:**

> For Alice. It's two years late and not really what you asked for, but at least it's finished. Hopefully you don't hate it. 
> 
> Cheers to Anna for proof-reading this and finding meaningful symbolism where I didn't mean to write any. What a star you are.

When Sirius Black was sixteen years old, he ran away from home. He’s almost twenty-six now, and he hasn’t stopped running since.

“Look,” Sirius says, letting his hand fall a little too hard on the café table. He’s agreed to meet Dumbledore here, and they’ve made awkward small talk over tea and scones for the better part of an hour, skirting around any topics of import. Sirius is getting antsy. “We’ve been at a stalemate for months, and the lady’s driving me barmy. I need a fucking edge on these guys.”

Dumbledore takes a quiet sip of his tea. “I’d suggest you keep a close watch on that temper, Mr. Black,” he says slowly. “One of these days it’s going to get you into trouble.”

Sirius watches as he rises from the table. “I think we’re due for a bit of trouble,” he says, kicking his own chair back and standing up, not ready to leave without some new intel, or a mission, or really any task at all to take his mind off the unrelenting helplessness he’s been drowning under.

Dumbledore smiles faintly. “Take care, Sirius,” he says, and reaches out to shake his hand.

Sirius takes it, and doesn’t flinch when the skin on his palm begins to sizzle.

Dumbledore drops his hand a second later, reaching up to pat him on the cheek in a way that makes Sirius cringe, and then he’s gone, melding into the crowds outside the café.

When Sirius opens up his stinging hand, he finds Dumbledore’s spindly handwriting etched in embers on his skin.

 

_3618 Adler St_

_He’ll know what you’re looking for_

 

Sirius spares a moment to roll his eyes skyward and curse Dumbledore’s incessant need to speak in riddles. He quickly commits the information to memory and shakes his arm slightly, letting his wand drop from his sleeve to rest subtly against the point where his wrist meets his palm. He murmurs a quick word under his breath and the text on his skin goes up like flash paper, leaving a small pile of ash in its place. He tips his hand over, letting the ash disperse into the busy air of the café, and wipes it on his trousers. Looks like he has a task after all.

Adler Street is unusually busy for this time of day, and no one notices the man popping into existence behind a dumpster. Sirius brushes some dirt off his sleeve and steps out of the alley onto the sidewalk, weaving between single-minded Muggles with practiced ease. He stops at the door marked 3618, numbers painted in fading gold on the glass, crescent moon hanging from the window. Sirius shoulders his way inside and is nearly knocked down by the scent. The rich, warm aroma of chocolate is overwhelming, and Sirius takes a moment to bask. For all that he didn’t mind the wealth he’d lost in his disinheritance, there is something to be said for these small, worldly pleasures he can no longer afford. His eyes fall on the long glass case in front of him. Chocolates in every conceivable shape and flavor are laid out, beautiful truffles and carefully constructed cordials, delicate design work atop each one. They remind him of the chocolates his mother used to favor, the ones that sometimes, if he was very good, she would share with him. They used to melt on his tongue slowly, with precision, the way that only quality chocolate ever seemed to. Sirius glances at a price tag and winces.

“Can I help you?”

Looking up quickly from the display case, Sirius backs up a step when he sees the man in front of him. He is, Sirius supposes, rather plain. His features are nondescript, his hair a mousy brown, but there’s a patchwork map of scars across his face that seems peculiar for a mere chocolatier. “Is this all your work?” Sirius asks casually, gesturing to the display case.

There’s a plain black apron tied around the man’s waist, and he wipes his hands on it before extending one to Sirius. More scars wind their way around his fingers.

“Remus Lupin,” the man says, and his voice is rougher than Sirius might have expected. “Maker of fine chocolates and purveyor of this establishment.”

Sirius shakes his hand, firm and practiced. “William Lourde, one-time eater of fine chocolates.”

Remus’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “Lourde, you say? Are you some kind of nobleman, then?”

“Once, perhaps. These days I’m anything but,” Sirius admits, then adds with a grin, “That legacy now belongs to my baby brother, bless his black and shriveled heart.”

It is not quite a joke, and Remus does not laugh. Instead he cocks his head to the side, gaze studying and slightly unsettling.

“So,” he says, finally. “What can I do for you, Mr. Lourde?”

Sirius blinks. His charm is usually more effective. He glances back at the case, but he’s still not sure what he’s looking for. “A few chocolate orange ones, then,” Sirius said, casual. “If you’ve got ‘em.” He grins meaningfully up at Remus. “They came highly recommended.”

Remus does not so much smile, as twitch one side of his mouth up a fraction. “An interesting choice.” He taps one long finger against the counter. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Sirius wants a lot of things at this moment, and none of them are chocolate. “Positive.”

“Hm,” Remus says, as if considering. “Just a moment.” He disappears into the back, leaving Sirius alone, once again, with the truffles.

Sighing, Sirius shifts to lean against the display case. He lets his eyes wander, taking in worn wallpaper and battered tables, the handwritten menu board hanging next to the kitchen door. It seems to be your basic rundown, cocoa percentages and flavor options, laid out in neat, chalked lines. Sirius wonders whose handwriting it is. He also imagines what else those scarred fingers may have done. He’s pulled out of his own thoughts when the words on the board, clear a moment ago, go suddenly blurry under observation. Sirius scrubs at his eyes, but the letters get no clearer. Frowning, he lets his wand slip from his sleeve. He flicks it once towards the board, and watches as the letters rearrange themselves to form an entirely different menu.

 

_Love ~~~~~~~~~ 1 sickle_

_Luck ~~~~~~~~~ 1 sickle_

_Trust ~~~~~~~~ 2 sickles_

_Pepper-up ~~~~ 10 knuts_

_Indigestion ~~~ 10 knuts_

_THIS MONTH’S SPECIAL:_

_Born Again Berry Cordial_

_~ featuring Insight ~ 1 sickle_

_Truth ~~~~~~~ POA_

Sirius blinks at the menu board, at the sure, graceful handwriting, and thinks, _oh._

Remus comes back out from the kitchen, small box in hand, and Sirius stands up straight. Remus sets the box down on the counter in front of Sirius, who takes the lid off, curious. He is fairly certain it is not what he’d ordered.

“This isn’t what I asked for,” Sirius says.

“No,” Remus agrees. “But you’ll like it better. Trust me.”

“I don’t trust you,” Sirius says easily, putting the lid back on the box and giving it a little shove back towards Remus. “And I know what I want.”

Remus’s mouth does that little quirk again, and Sirius resists the urge to return it. “Do you?” Remus asks.

Before he can reply, Remus has pushed the box into Sirius’s hands, skin rough and warm against his own. “Just try it,” he insists.

Sirius swallows. The image of those hands tracing careful letters onto the board, chalk dust on his fingers, flashes unbidden into his mind, and he quickly squashes it. “This is not very good customer service, you know.”

Another quirk. “Will you be paying with pounds or sickles today?”

Sirius arches an eyebrow. “You expect me to pay for something I didn’t order?”

“And to think I was offering you the friends and family discount.” Remus sighs, punches the price into the till, and holds out a hand. “If you’re not entirely satisfied with your purchase, you are free to return and demand a refund. Does that sound reasonable, Mr. Lourde?”

It is, in every way, unreasonable to expect someone to pay for a product they did not ask for. And yet, Sirius finds himself reaching into a linty trouser pocket and fishing out the coins. He makes sure to place them in Remus’s palm without touching. The register opens with a small ding, and Remus drops the money inside, drawer clacking shut afterwards.

“Enjoy,” Remus says, and with a small wave he’s gone, back into the kitchen, leaving Sirius standing with a small box and considerably more questions than he’d had when he entered. Eyeing the magical menu board one last time, Sirius grabs the box and pushes his way back out onto Adler street, sunlight blinding him momentarily as his pupils adjust. After he’s safely apparated back to his apartment and taken off the cosmetic concealment charms that turn him into William Lourde, he runs every conceivable diagnostic on the chocolate, looking for spells or potions or curses or anything that a nefarious character might lace into an innocent looking confection. He finds nothing. He steeples his fingers together on the kitchen table and regards the chocolate. It’s dark, almost black, he thinks with amusement, with an intricate pattern of spirals on top. It will hardly last him two bites. Carefully, he picks it out of its paper lining and brings it to his mouth. The chocolate is smooth against his fingertips, withstanding the warmth of his hands as he holds it. The scent is a small reminder of the richness of the shop, the memory of his mother’s strategically offered treats, and he brings it to his lips, intoxicated. Luxurious chocolate hits his tongue and he almost moans, then the dark, cocoa flavor is interrupted by warm notes of ginger, lighting up in his mouth. He lets that first, miraculous bite melt away and then takes another, and another, and too soon it’s gone, fading to sweet aftertaste and the spice of ginger in his throat. It is, undoubtedly, the best chocolate he’s ever eaten. He is suddenly heartbroken he’d only purchased one, a sentiment quickly followed by anger as he realizes his weekly, self-rewarded tube of Smarties will never be able to compare.

He’s still sulking in his chocolate induced stupor when a familiar owl taps at the kitchen window. Sirius waves a hand and the window unlocks itself, the owl flapping its way over to the table. Sirius detaches the letter from its leg, but it sits, waiting for a response. Once he’s read the message, Sirius snorts, and summons a pen from a kitchen drawer to scribble his answer underneath.

In Dumbledore’s spindly handwriting it says: _Have you found yourself a lead?_

Then, added in Sirius’s manicured script: _Tell your source I owe him a pint. And he owes me 3 pounds._

*

Sirius spends the next two weeks scoping out the chocolate shop, keeping track of who enters and who exits, and what they carry with them when they do. At least two people with shaky ties to Death Eaters go in, stay no longer than five minutes, and leave carrying neatly wrapped, unexciting parcels. Sirius is spending nearly every day watching the goings on, and every evening poring over notes and flipping through the photos of the missing. Sirius can’t quite remember when his work for the Order had gone from an occasional obligation to a full time job, but then again everything had changed when the Ministry fell. Ministry bureaucracy, a joke at the best of times, is practically nonexistent under the new regime. The potions trade, once highly regulated, is now open to any shmoe with a cauldron and a working knowledge of chemical reactions. Everyday influence draughts like love potions or aphrodisiacs have always been easy enough to come by, but truth serums were highly regulated. Now they are being sold by the dozen in the middle of Muggle London by a not unattractive shopkeeper who is proving impervious to Sirius’s aristocratic charm. Information is their greatest weapon, and it is being pried from the lips of Order members by chocolate truffles.

His head jerks up from his notes at the sound of retching from the bathroom. Sighing, he pushes the paper aside and levers himself off the sofa to amble towards the loo. Lily is sitting on the bare linoleum, pajama shirt slipping off one shoulder, red-faced and coughing.

“Hullo, darling,” he says, squatting down next to her. “How’s my best girl?”

Lily’s eyes go narrow and dangerous, and she directs all the fury she can muster at Sirius. “Fuck you.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sirius says, patting her on the back as she leans over the toilet bowl again. Sirius quickly reaches around to grab her hair, holding it back above her shoulder as she vomits. Afterwards, she leans down to let her forehead rest against the ceramic.

“If James ever comes back I’ll kill him myself.”

Sirius gives her another pat, twisting her hair more firmly behind her head as another wave of nausea overtakes her.

They both look up when a sleepy Harry pads into the bathroom. He blinks at them both, eyes wide and unfocused without his glasses, and crosses his legs. “I gotta pee,” he tells them.

Sirius moves to the side, helping Lily to scoot a few inches across the tile. “Right this way, your highness,” Sirius says, and gestures regally to the toilet.

Harry quickly crosses the room, tugging down his pajamas as he goes, and Sirius respectfully averts his gaze from his godson. When he’s done, Sirius directs Harry to the sink to wash his hands, and sends him back to bed, smiling at the sound of small feet thwacking down the hall to his bedroom.

Lily groans again, and Sirius moves quickly, clearing a path back to the toilet.

“Just think,” he says, rubbing what he hopes are soothing circles into her back. “Five years on and this nightmare of a fetus will be just another myopic sprog in golden snitch pajamas.”

Lily vomits again in response.

A thrilling half hour later, Sirius and Lily are back on the sofa, matching mugs of herbal tea in hand (Sirius’s with a healthy dose of firewhiskey), watching late night television and eating wine gums by the handful. Sirius wrinkles his nose around a mouthful.

“If we’re going to keep doing this, we really should invest in some better sweets.”

Lily snorts. “Afraid we don’t have a ‘sweets’ subsection in our monthly budget, love.”

Sirius regards the misshaped gummy in his hand for a moment, then flicks it at Lily. It hits her cheek with a dull smack and bounces off. “Surely we can do better than this,” he says when she turns to glare.

“I would kill a man for a real chocolate bar,” she admits. “At the very least one we didn’t buy at Tesco.”

Sirius pauses with a wine gum halfway to his mouth. He’s been putting off going back to the chocolate shop, making excuses about the necessity of further reconnaissance and not wanting to admit that he was nervous about seeing one Remus Lupin again. But Lily is still flushed from being ill in the bathroom, and braving a crush was, comparatively, small potatoes. “You know, Lils, I think I have just the thing.”

 

*

 

The chocolate shop is unchanged when Sirius steps inside the next afternoon. Two thirty, he had learned over the past several weeks, seemed to be the peak potion selling hour, with wizarding traffic picking up dramatically until the end of the work day. He has barely made it up to the display case when Remus emerges from the kitchen, and Sirius wonders if he’s spelled the door to notify him when someone enters. Remus is sporting a soft looking long-sleeve shirt and that not-quite-smile that made something hot start to flutter in Sirius’s stomach.

“Come for your refund, Mr. Lourde?”

“Not quite,” Sirius replies, tapping a hand on the chocolate case. “I’ve come to make a purchase, in fact.”

“Oh, lovely.” Remus leans so one hip is resting against the counter. “You were pleased with your last one, I take it?” He asks like he already knows the answer, and Sirius imagines he probably did.

“It was bloody marvelous, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Sirius says, only a little grumpiness creeping into his tone. “I’d have never thought about ginger and chocolate together, but it was…” he struggles to put into words the experience of eating that first piece, before settling on, “rather nice.”

Remus lifts an eyebrow. “Rather nice? Oh my word, no. We’ll have to do better than that.”

Sirius gets the feeling he’s being picked on. He clears his throat. “You got anything herbal?”

“Certainly,” Remus says, pushing off the counter to walk around the case. “I’ve a lovely basil number in here somewhere. And I think a chamomile, as well.”

“Chamomile’d be great,” Sirius says. He looks down at where nimble fingers are picking efficiently through the chocolates. “Make it two.”

Remus lays the candies in a small box identical to the one he’d given Sirius weeks before. “I must say I’m surprised. I’d not pegged you as a chamomile man.”

“I’m not,” Sirius says quickly, suddenly defensive. “It’s for the pregnant hag I’m living with. She’s got a thing for the teas.” He waves a hand in what he hopes is an illustrative gesture.

Remus’s eyes widen slightly. “Of course,” he says amiably. “I hadn’t realized you were married. How far along is your wife?”

Sirius realizes his error before Remus has even finished his sentence. _Shite buggering fuck stop talking._ “Bout six months,” Sirius replies carefully, ignoring the married comment. _We’ll have to figure out the delivery soon,_ he thinks.

Remus nods. “Is she still feeling nauseous?”

Sirius snorts at that. “Why do they call it morning sickness if they’re ill all the bloody time?”

“A true mystery,” Remus agrees. While Sirius has been floundering, Remus has added two more chocolates to the box.

“Again, Lupin? I didn’t order those.” Sirius points to the extra truffles.

“Consider them a gift, Mr. Lourde,” Remus says, placing the lid on the box and sliding it across the counter. “For the missus.”

Sirius sputters.

“They’ll help with the nausea,” Remus explains, saving Sirius from formulating a response.

Which is kind of him. He is kind, Sirius is learning. And maybe it’s the attraction speaking, but he does not seem the sort of man to be smuggling illegal potions out the back door. Which leaves Sirius at a quandary.

He hands over his coins. “Where’d you become such a dab hand at potions?”

Remus rings up the purchase without looking, register familiar under his fingers. “Oh, here and there.”

“I don’t remember seeing you at school,” Sirius says. “What year did you graduate?”

Remus looks up at that. “I didn’t attend Hogwarts.”

Sirius blinks. Was it possible he had misread the man?

“I’m not a squib,” Remus says lightly, as if Sirius had asked the thought out loud. “But due to an unfortunate medical condition, I was unable to attend school with any regularity.”

“I’m sorry,” Sirius says, adding _medical condition_ to the mental file folder he’s been compiling. 

Remus shrugs. “I am far from uneducated. My parents made sure I received an excellent home education.”

“Right. And you’re well, now?”

Remus looks surprised at that, to have been asked, and Sirius smiles.

“I mean, you’re not about to die on me, right, Lupin?”

Remus’s lips tug up just slightly. He pushes the box of chocolates into Sirius’s palm. “Not just yet, Mr. Lourde. Good day.”

Sirius’s hand tingles the entire way home.

 

*

 

That night, after Harry has been put to bed and Lily has thrown-up six times into the newly cleaned toilet bowl, they find themselves once again on the sofa, Lily fishing around in the coffee table drawers for a fresh bag of candy.

“Put that trash away, you vomiting wench,” he says, slapping the wine gums out of her hands.

“Hey!” Lily protests. “I was gonna eat those!”

“This is for your own good,” Sirius says, kicking the candies further across the floor, out of reach.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Black,” Lily says darkly.

He scoffs. “Like taking candy from a baby.”

“Yes. You are literally taking candy from a baby. An unborn baby who is trying to murder me from the inside out and will not stand for any sustenance that’s not ketchup crisps or wine gums!”

Sirius blanches.

“Give me my fucking candy back.” Lily reaches for her wand, and Sirius springs into action, tripping over the bag of wine gums and flailing into the kitchen.

“Stop!” Sirius says, dodging a hex. “Wait, wait, Lils, darling, love of my best mate’s life, PUT THE WAND DOWN FOR MERLIN’S SAKE!”

“CANDY,” Lily shouts. “NOW.”

Sirius throws the box of chocolates at her and dives behind the kitchen table, another hex shooting past where his head had just been. “Bloody madwoman,” he mutters into the linoleum.

“What is this?” Lily asks, wand forgotten so she can pry the lid off the box. “Did you buy me chocolates?” she asks, disbelieving.

“Technically?” Sirius says from beneath the table. “Yes.”

“Sirius!”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he says stubbornly. “I only paid for half of them anyway.”

Lily has popped one of the chamomile candies in her mouth, and Sirius can hear her groan even from his fortified position. “Oh ma gawf,” she says, mouth still full of melting chocolate.

Sirius snorts.

Lily picks up another, one of the two Remus had said would help the nausea, and takes a small bite. She turns around to lean over the couch and stare at Sirius, incredulous. “This is literally the best chocolate I have ever tasted.”

“Right?”

“You’re telling me someone gave you half of this for free?”

“Technically?” Sirius chews at his lip for a second, remembering. “Yes.”

Lily narrows her eyes, and Sirius shrinks away. “Why?” she asks.

“Honestly,” Sirius replies, laughing, “I have no idea.”

 

*

 

The next time he sees Remus Lupin, he’s in a Tesco, of all places.

“You wound me, Mr. Lourde,” says a rough, familiar voice behind him.

Sirius drops the marked down chocolate bar he’s been holding, and whips around.

“Not even name brand?” Remus tsks. “Shameful.”

“Yeah, well.” Sirius picks up the chocolate bar and puts it pointedly in his basket, grateful that he’d at least remembered to put his glamours on before this pathetic shopping trip.

“And here I thought we had something special.”

Sirius looks up at that. Remus’s lips are pressed together as if he’s containing his smile.

“Special’s a bit out of my price range, at the moment,” Sirius tells him.

Remus at least has the good grace to look mildly embarrassed.

“It’s not for me, though,” Sirius explains, waving a hand at his basket. “You went and spoiled the woman forever with your fancy candy. She won’t even touch the wine gums now.”

“A tragedy,” Remus says dryly.

Sirius rolls his eyes, and grabs another bar off the sale shelf with a flourish. “It’s Tesco brand chocolate for us, now. Less than a quid,” he says to Remus. “I’m sure it tastes basically the same.”

Remus makes a horrified sort of noise. “Take that back.”

“Make me,” Sirius replies, unthinking. And the playful atmosphere of a moment ago shatters, replaced with something altogether more charged. Sirius resists a shiver.

Remus inhales sharply through his nose, and Sirius makes a valiant attempt to ignore the shift in tone.

“I really ought to have a word with your employer,” Remus says with forced lightness. “He could clearly stand to up your salary.”

Sirius can’t help it. He barks out a laugh.

“Something comical?” Remus asks.

“My employer is not someone who’s easily persuaded,” Sirius explains, smirking.

Remus lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Surely even Dumbledore can see the benefit of the occasional truffle.”

Sirius freezes. He can feel the blood draining from his face, is sure he looks a ghostly sight under the fluorescent lights of the supermarket.

It is at this moment though that a Muggle woman, apparently unaware of the tense, menacing cloud hovering over the candy aisle, scoffs and grumbles and glares at Sirius, reaching around him to grab a jumbo package of Maltesers. She spares a glare for Remus too, as she walks by, before disappearing into the neighboring aisle.

And while the odd mood in the candy aisle is broken, Sirius is left unsure of where he stands. He smirks over at Remus anyway, who is covering his own smile with his hand. It is fun, he remembers, the flirting. There is something casual and easy about it that makes him forget. He needs to remember. “Someone told you,” he says.

Remus drops his hand from his mouth, and tilts his head a fraction, not a nod, not a no. “Perhaps you are just not as mysterious as you’d like to believe.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Sirius says, unflinching.

Remus’s surprise is betrayed by his raised eyebrows, a reflex, but one that is quickly counteracted. He shifts a little on his feet, shaking it off. “What is it you do for Dumbledore, then, that requires such-,“ he pauses for a second, as if searching for the words. “Crafted subterfuge?”

Sirius doesn’t blink. “Whatever he asks me to.”

Once again, Remus’s eyes widen in reaction, but this time it’s intentional. “My word,” he says dramatically. “And what did dear, old Albus do to win such unwavering loyalty?" 

“More than you can afford, I’m sure,” Sirius says.

Something flashes across Remus’s face, but it’s an unfamiliar emotion on those features, and Sirius can’t place it. He thinks maybe it’s hurt.

“I don’t intend to buy your trust, Mr. Lourde,” Remus reaches a hand into his jacket pocket. “But if you’ll let me,” he says quietly, placing a small box into Sirius’s basket, “I should very much like to earn it.” His eyes meet Sirius’s one last time, and then he’s gone. He hadn’t bought anything, Sirius realizes. Hadn’t even been carrying a basket. Sirius looks down at the familiar box in his own, and lets out a shaky breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding in.

“Fuck,” Sirius says, and it seems to echo around the empty candy aisle, ringing in his ears as he walks towards the checkout.

 

*

 

Over the next month, small boxes of chocolate keep appearing where Sirius will find them, and Order members with useful secrets keep finding truth serums left benignly on their desks, mixed into their cocoa, or in one alarming instance, baked into a batch of brownies their child brought home from school. Sirius has been running every test required by the Order, as well as some Black family originals, and can still find no trace of anything untoward in the candy he’s receiving. Aside from the feeling in his gut and the continuous stream of suspicious patrons entering the chocolate shop, there is no concrete evidence tying Remus Lupin to any crimes. Sirius wants to tear his hair out.

When he barges into the chocolate shop the next day, he’s carrying the most recent box, one which had been handed to him along with his coffee that morning at his favorite café.

“Lupin!” He shouts, slapping a palm loudly on top of the display case, making it rattle. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

An unfamiliar head pokes out from the kitchen, eyes narrowed behind thick-rimmed spectacles. “Sorry, what?”

Sirius stares at the boy. “Where’s Lupin?”

The kid sniffs, pushing his glasses up when they threaten to slip off his nose. “He’s not here.”

“I need to speak with him,” Sirius says, with forced calm.

“Like I said, he’s not here.”

Sirius grinds his teeth together and takes a steadying breath. “Know when he’ll be back?”

The boy, to his credit, does not seem in the least intimidated by Sirius’s scowl. Sirius makes a mental note to work on that. 

“He’ll be back on Thursday,” the boy says, peering disconcertingly at Sirius.

“What’s your problem, kid?”

“Mr. Lupin doesn’t like shouting.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, because of course he doesn’t. “Whatever.” He points a finger at the boy. “Tell Lupin I wanna talk with him, kay?”

“Sure,” the kid says, and stares, owl-eyed, at Sirius until he’s left.

It’s only Monday. The box of chocolates sits heavy in Sirius’s pocket.

 

*

 

“’Dear Daisy,’” Lily says that evening, stack of letters in her lap. “’I’ve just discovered that my son is a pouf.’”

Sirius guffaws into his tea as Lily continues.

“’I found him necking a neighbor boy in the basement. I’ve tried to reason with him, but he says he won’t stop being gay.’”

Sirius chokes on a sip, and Lily whacks him on the arm, grinning. “Wait, oh my god, Sirius, it gets better. ‘I’m very worried about what will happen when the garden club finds out.’”

“Are you sure this isn’t your sister?” Sirius asks, and Lily punches him in the shoulder.

“Dudley is only five,” she points out. “I should hope he’s not snogging _anyone_ yet. ‘How do I convince my son to make the right choice and stop kissing boys in the basement?’”

“Ah, yes,” Sirius says sagely. “The age old question.”

Lily snorts. “’Any advice much appreciated. Sincerely, Deeply Concerned.’”

“She’s not the only one,” Sirius says, and Lily sniggers next to him, reaching for her pen.

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Sirius watches as she scribbles out her response. He flips aimlessly through some field reports, pausing occasionally to refill their tea. The coffee table is covered in paper, between Sirius’s notes, Lily’s “Dear Daisy” letters, and the scattered artwork of five-year-old Harry, who is sitting on the floor with a box of crayons and a long forgotten plate of fish fingers. Sirius spares a moment to wonder how he’d gotten so domestic.

“Alright, listen to this,” Lily says, straightening the paper in her hand with a crack. “’Dear Concerned, you could help to illustrate an important lesson to your son by changing your own sexuality, maybe just for a year or so, to show him how very easy it is. Help him to see that your sexuality is a choice – one influenced, of course, by concerned parents and garden club members – and is easily corrected if you just put your mind to it.’”

Sirius presses his head back into the sofa cushions, giggling uncontrollably. 

“If you’re sitting there certain that this task is impossible, I commend you on your perceptive nature and encourage you not to force such impossible standards on your son. He is who he is, and if you cannot accept that, it is most likely not in his best interests to stay in your home. As he has gone to the trouble of hiding his dalliances in arguably the least romantic room in your home, I imagine you’ve already done a considerable amount in creating an uncomfortable and unhealthy living environment. I encourage you to seek out resources that can help with these matters, such as PFLAG, which has a central office here in London, the address of which you will find at the bottom of this column. Love is love, my dear Concerned. Be grateful for the gifts you have, and tell your garden club ladies to mind their own damn business.’” Lily grins wickedly. “’Sincerely, Daisy.’”

“You,” Sirius says, clutching a hand to his heart, “are my all-time, absolute, favorite person.”

Lily winks. “I try.” She separates the answered letter from the rest of the stack, and sets both down neatly on the coffee table. “Speaking of favorite people, any sign of my new best friend, the mysterious chocolatier?”

Sirius’s face darkens, and he scowls at Lily. “Jacob handed me another box this morning.”

“He sent them to the coffee shop?” Lily asks, and winces when Sirius nods. “This may be getting slightly out of hand.”

“Slightly,” Sirius agrees.

There’s a beat of silence, which features Lily chewing on her lip in thought, then making grabby hands at Sirius. “Gimme.”

“Incorrigible,” Sirius mutters, but passes the box over nonetheless. 

“They’re just so damn good,” Lily says, prying the lid off with glee. “You’ve checked these, though? Just in case?”

“Of course. Extensively,” Sirius confirms. “Nothing.”

“Well, at least he’s not trying to poison you,” Lily says cheerfully.

“Yet,” Sirius replies darkly, and Lily rolls her eyes. “I’m serious – shut up!” He says when she opens her mouth to interject, smirking. “I’m serious, Lils. I don’t trust him.”

Lily takes a bite of chocolate and groans. “Because he’s stalking you?” she asks casually.

“He wasn’t at the shop today,” Sirius says.

“And you missed him?” Lily teases.

Sirius glares.

“Besides the fact that he’s clearly a little… overeager in his affections, is there a reason you’re so-“ she makes a gesture at Sirius meant to encompass the crossed arms, the deep frown, the narrowed eyes. “Suspicious?”

Sirius’s notes on the case were sitting next to Lily’s letters on the coffee table. He’s charmed them all confidential. If Lily or Harry picks one up, they’ll see nothing of import, but Sirius still looks intently elsewhere. “No,” he says, half-shrugging. “I guess not.”

 

*

 

Thursday morning, Sirius goes to get his daily cup at the café six tube stops and a fifteen minute walk from their apartment. Jacob the barista smiles when he comes in, and Sirius glowers at him. There are no chocolates handed across the counter with his coffee. He gives a brusque nod to Jacob in thanks. He’s fixing it the way he always does (one cream, five sugars), when a low, mischievous voice says behind him, “I heard you’ve been harassing my shop boy.”

Sirius leaves his coffee on the counter and whirls around, diatribe about personal space and boundaries on the tip of his tongue, when he sees Lupin. He looks a mess. There are deep, dark circles under his eyes. His face is wan and pale, and the recognized constellations of scars on his skin, normally faded, seem fresh in a way they hadn’t the last time Sirius had seen them.

“The fuck happened to you?” Sirius asks, because higher brain function comes with coffee, and he is being prevented from drinking his by the sickly, still stupidly attractive, sometimes-stalker standing in front of him.

Remus cocks his head at him in question. “I did tell you I have a medical condition.”

And that’s right, he had told Sirius, and Sirius had made a mental note, and then all that information had been replaced in his mind by the lines of Remus’s hands in the light of the shop, the shape of well-known chocolate boxes in his pockets. Sirius reaches behind him and takes a long pull of coffee, too bitter; his sugaring had been interrupted. But he feels the first rush of caffeine firing through his brain, and shrugs. “Could have been asthma,” he tells Remus. Sirius gets a not-quite-smile at that, and his heart rate kicks up. He makes up his mind to blame it on the caffeine. “It’s not, though, is it?”

Remus shakes his head. “It’s not.”

“Stop following me,” Sirius says.

“You started it,”

“I did not!” Sirius protests.

“Did too,” Remus replies, and Sirius throws up his hands.

“I’m not doing this with you.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m fighting a goddamn war!” Sirius yells, temper snapping.

Remus does not recoil an inch. He gazes intently at Sirius, head still tilted, studying, unsettling. “Are you?” he asks.

Sirius blinks, rage still simmering just there, under his skin. He turns around. “Yeah,” he says lowly. “Why aren’t you?”

Remus does draw back a little at that. He glances around quickly, but for the most part the curious Muggles that had turned to look at Sirius’s outburst have gone back to what they’d been doing. He drops his voice to match Sirius’s. “I’m fighting to stay alive, just like everyone else.”

Sirius snaps a lid on his coffee cup with force. “Fuck that,” he says. “I’m not fighting for my life, Lupin.” He turns around in time to see Remus take two steps forward, so that they’re just inches apart. The scars on his face stand out in drastic relief.

“Then what, pray tell, _are_ you fighting for, Mr. Lourde?”

Unflinching, unwavering, Sirius stands his ground. “The greater good.”

Remus narrows his eyes at him. “And who decides which good is greatest?” He asks icily. “You? Your precious Albus?”

“Better him than your lot,” Sirius grows.

“My lot?” Remus says, quirking an eyebrow, all innocence. “Have you got something against chocolatiers now?”

Sirius grits his teeth, shoving past Remus towards the door. “Got to hell,” he mutters as he passes, and Remus’s hushed voice chases him out.

“I’ve already been, thanks.”

 

*

 

Dorcas Meadowes goes missing the following Tuesday. Her body is recovered less than a day later, after two unsuspecting Muggle trash collectors open the wrong dumpster lid. They, along with the police officers who arrived at the scene, are obliviated in quick succession, and Dorcas is taken back to the makeshift Order headquarters, which consists of a table, some conjured folding chairs, and a battered sofa Sirius and Gideon had levitated in from the alley.

“Do we have a cause of death?” Dumbledore asks upon arrival.

Hestia Jones, their only registered mediwitch, shakes her head. “It wasn’t any kind of curse I’m familiar with.”

Dumbledore strokes his beard in thought. “Where was she stationed?”

Gideon glances at the schedule board floating in the corner. “Patrolling Knockturn and Haymarket. Last I heard she was chasing down a suspect in the potions case.”

Sirius looks up from where he’d been staring at his shoelaces, not wanting to see Dorcas’s corpse cold and still on the table. “Veritaserum,” he says softly, almost to himself, but Gideon hears.

“Veritaserum’s not fatal.”

“No,” Sirius agrees. “But her abduction fits the pattern.” He taps, unsettled, at his forehead, thought forming just there beneath the surface.

“Why would they kill her?” Gideon is asking, and Sirius thumps harder.

Hestia shrugs. “Sent us a message.”

“But they didn’t send it,” Gideon argues. “They pitched her in a dumpster.”

Sirius shakes his head, trying to clear the image of Dorcas, only twenty-six, wide-eyed and tossed in with the garbage.

“Maybe it was an accident then,” Hestia suggests.

Dumbledore is quiet, watching Sirius become more and more agitated across the room.

“How do you accidentally kill someone?” Gideon asks, and Sirius shoots to his feet.

“Allergies,” he says, pointing frantically at Hestia, who turns back to the body and wrinkles her nose in confusion.

“I guess the results could be indicative of anaphylactic shock,” she says, waving her wand gently over Dorcas, the tip glowing a faint blue. “But it still doesn’t make any sense. The only thing she was allergic to was chocolate.”

Sirius’s brain is going a mile a minute, and he throws wild eyes to Dumbledore. “Sir, permission to-“

“Go,” Dumbledore says quickly, and Sirius is gone.


	2. Harry Potter

Four days before Harry Potter’s fifth birthday, his abba disappears. He’s five and a half now, and he hasn’t seem him since.

But life’s okay, he thinks. He’s still got his mum, and his Uncle Sirius, and sometimes they cry so he tries not to. He’s gotten rather good at it.

His mum is smiling today, though.

“Harry, darling, do you wanna go on an adventure?”

Harry nods. It wasn’t often they got to leave the flat.

“Let’s make it a game, yeah?”

Harry nods again. The rules of the game are simple: don’t talk to strangers. Harry doesn’t talk to anyone. He is very good at the game.

“Get your coat, love.”

When Harry has his coat and his hat and his mittens and his shoes on, he stands by the door and waits. His mum pulls out her wand and taps him once on the top of the head, and Harry shivers as the cold bathwater sensation runs down his back. When it reaches his toes, he shakes once more, then stands on his tip-toes to peer into the mirror next to the door. It’s always a surprise to see a new face reflected back at him. Today his hair is blonde, and his normally dark skin is milky white and freckled. He blinks. His eyes are blue.

His mum is similarly changed, her red hair now a matching shade of straw yellow. _Her nose looks different_ , he thinks. She smiles at him.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” Harry replies.

She kisses him once on the top of the head, then takes his hand and marches them out of the flat.

They take the train. Harry tries to count the number of stops but loses track after sixteen, because he forgets which number comes next. He sits on his mum’s lap and swings his legs over the dirty train floor, watching the dark speed by through the windows.

An old woman sitting across from them keeps smiling at him. He doesn’t smile back.

“Time to go, love,” his mum says in his ear, and he hops down just as the train screeches to a stop so that he is pitched forward into the smiling lady. She catches him by the arm, and he feels something cold and scared settle in his chest. It’s only a moment though, and then his mum is scooping him up and carrying him off the train. “Thank you,” she says, smiling over her shoulder at the woman. Harry turns his face into her shirt and doesn’t look back.

They take the stairs out of the tube station, and Harry does two-foot hops all the way up, hand clenched tightly in his mum’s. The street outside is full of strangers. Harry presses his lips together a little tighter.

It feels like they’re walking forever. There are so many people and cars and sometimes dogs and prams and Harry is relieved when his mum just picks him up and carries him the rest of the way. She sets him down just outside a gold-painted door, and Harry reads the numbers off in his head. _3-6-1-8._

The door squeaks a little as they open it, but there’s no bell. The shop next door to their flat has a bell, and Harry always likes opening the door to hear it. But this door is mostly quiet.

It’s warm and cozy inside, and his mum takes a deep breath next to him, so Harry does too. He’s never smelled this smell before, but he thinks he likes it.

A man appears behind the counter, frowning down at his hands. Harry can understand that. He’s been frowning down at his new hands all morning. But then the man looks up at them and his face changes. He isn’t smiling, but Harry feels like he should be. His face looks like a smile.

“Good morning,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

“It smells absolutely marvelous in here,” his mum says, and Harry nods next to her. He doesn’t know what marvelous means, but it sounds right. “I’ve had your chocolate before, but this is just something else.”

“Well, I’m always happy to see new faces,” the man says. “Have you come looking for something in particular?”

“The chamomile ones were lovely,” his mum says, “but I just tried a piece the other day that was so good – I think it was basil?”

The man’s face changes again, and Harry watches with rapt attention. “You’re not- are you Mrs. Lourde?”

His mum laughs the special laugh that means she’s nervous. Harry holds her hand tighter. “William’s been telling me so much about you. I must say, you’ve been causing him quite the headache.”

“My sincerest apologies for that,” the man replies. “It was certainly not my intention.”

“Come now, Mr. Lupin, we both know that’s not quite true.”

Mr. Lupin lets out a breath, and Harry thinks it might be a laugh. Sometimes people laugh like that.

“You’ve got me there,” he admits. “But hopefully my… tokens have been appreciated.”

His mum smiles. “Oh, more than you know.”

Mr. Lupin smiles back, a real smile this time, with teeth, and Harry takes a step closer to his mum. “And who’s this, then?” Mr. Lupin asks.

“Henry,” his mum replies, setting a warm hand atop his head. He breathes a little easier.

“Lovely to meet you, Henry, and…” he looks at them questioningly.

“Daisy,” his mum says.

“Daisy,” the man replies. “Would you like some chocolate?”

Before his mum can say anything, Harry nods, and Mr. Lupin laughs.

“Wonderful.”

Mr. Lupin’s chocolate is different from any chocolate Harry has ever had. _Marvelous_ , Harry remembers, and takes another bite. They are sitting at one of the small tables in the shop, him, his mum, and Mr. Lupin, and Mr. Lupin keeps bringing new flavors for them to try. His mum picks up each one before she tastes it, turning it around between her fingers and then taking a careful bite. Sometimes she passes it to Harry next, sometimes she eats the whole thing. Harry copies her, squinting down at the chocolate before nibbling off a piece. Mr. Lupin watches them, toothy smile still stuck on his face.

Harry is halfway through a strawberry one when the door to the shop squeaks quietly open. His godfather throws himself inside and immediately freezes when he sees them. He is out of breath and his face is red and he’s forgotten to hide the tattoo on his wrist. Harry waves.

“Mr. Lourde!” Mr. Lupin says, leaning back in his chair. “What a lovely surprise. I was just getting to know your missus.”

His mum laughs that nervous laugh again, and Uncle Sirius narrows his eyes.

“Would you care to join us?” Mr. Lupin holds out a hand and waves it at the empty seat at their little table.

Harry notices a little bit of chocolate on his thumb, and carefully licks it off.

“Actually,” Uncle Sirius says, stepping towards them. “We’ve got to be heading out.”

“That is a shame,” Mr. Lupin says. “Well, it was lovely to have met you, Daisy,” he adds, turning to Harry’s mum, and then to Harry. “And Henry. Do come visit again.”

“Oh, we will,” his mum replies. “Won’t we, love?”

Harry reaches for another chocolate and nods.

Mr. Lupin laughs again, and then Uncle Sirius is at the table, taking the chocolate out of Harry’s hands. “Time to go, sprog.”

Harry looks glumly back at the chocolate, but lets himself be lifted out of his seat and handed to his mum, who pokes Uncle Sirius in the arm as they walk towards the door.

“Thanks for the treats, Mr. Lupin,” she says, smiling.

“Please,” Mr. Lupin says, “just Remus is fine.”

“Remus, then,” his mum says, and turns to Uncle Sirius. “You coming, Will?”

His godfather nods once. “Go on, I’ll just be a sec,” he says, and waves towards the door.

“Will-” his mum starts, but Uncle Sirius interrupts her. _That’s not nice_ , Harry’s brain supplies.

“I’ll catch up.”

His mum rolls her eyes, but carts Harry out of the shop and back into the busy street, setting him down carefully on the sidewalk outside before bundling him back up in his coat and mittens.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?” She asks, and Harry nods. “We should go on adventures more often.”

Harry is not sure he agrees.

A few minutes later Uncle Sirius pushes his way out of the shop and joins them on the sidewalk.

“Hullo, darling, how was your day?” His mum asks, and Uncle Sirius glares.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he says.

_Language_ , Harry thinks.

“Language!” his mum says.

“We’re not doing this here,” Uncle Sirius says, and then he’s grabbing hold of both of them and yanking them around a corner. Harry barely has time to take a breath before the familiar squeeze of apparition chokes the air out of his lungs. The street outside the chocolate shop is gone, replaced with an equally unfamiliar sidewalk outside a tube station. Uncle Sirius pulls them both down the stairs and onto a train, waving a hand over the turnstiles instead of using his Travelcard. Harry wonders if he forgot it.

They take the train in silence, and Harry watches the dark speed by through the windows. No one is smiling this time.

When they finally make it back up the stairs to the flat, Uncle Sirius is shaking.

Harry lets his mum tap his head with her wand again, and he shakes off the feeling of someone else’s skin. He peers into the mirror and is relieved to see his own hair and his own face again, the one that matches his abba’s.

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” Uncle Sirius asks again as his mum turns her own hair back to red.

“I was thinking that it’s been weeks since I’ve left this apartment and I needed a little pick me up. So sue me.”

“You can’t just go cavorting around London, Lils! What if someone recognized you?”

“Then they’d think, huh, what is Petunia Dursley doing out of Little Whinging?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

“Sirius, I am going absolutely barmy locked up in this apartment.”

“It’s for his protection, you know that.”

“And you think I would take him outside if I really thought something would happen to him?”

They’re talking about Harry. They do this sometimes, the yelling. He hates it.

“It was just a bit of chocolate, Sirius,” his mum says. “I checked it all before we ate it. Besides, you said you weren’t worried about him!”

“He killed Dorcas.”

Everything goes suddenly quiet. It feels like everyone had stopped breathing. Harry is holding his breath and he doesn’t know why. He lets it out.

“Dorcas is dead?” his mum asks, and her voice has gone weird and shaky.

“Found her this morning,” Uncle Sirius says, then, with a sad, terrifying smile, “Death by chocolate.”

“Fuck,” his mum breathes.

“You know the potions case? The missing agents? The veritaserum?”

His mum groans. “He’s selling it in the chocolates?”

“I think so. I’ve been watching for weeks. Didn’t have any firm evidence until this morning.”

“Dorcas-“

“She was allergic to chocolate.”

“Fuck,” his mum says again.

Harry is not sure what’s going on. But he sits and listens anyway to see if they’ll talk any more about him.

“I don’t know how he keeps finding me. Hell, I don’t even know why he keeps finding me.”

His mum snorts. “I’ve got a theory on the latter.”

“Shut it,” Uncle Sirius says, face going red. “I just mean, what’s in it for him?”

“He still thinks you’re just William Lourde, occasional chocolate buyer?”

Uncle Sirius sighs and rubs a hand down his face. Harry thinks he looks tired.

“He knows I work for Dumbledore.”

“He- what?”

Uncle Sirius throws his hands up. “He just knows things! Like where I am and who I work for and- oh fuck.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Sirius!”

“No, no I feel dumb enough, don’t rub it in!”

“Rub it in? Are you fucking kidding me right now?” His mum is really mad now, properly mad, and Harry shrinks back into the sofa.

“I’ve buggered up this whole thing,” Uncle Sirius says quietly.

“Oh, what, you mean being too blinded by the sexy shopkeeper to notice he’s a fucking legilimens?” Harry’s mum yelled. “Didn’t even occur to you to put up shields when chatting with a suspected dark wizard?”

“Enough, okay? I screwed up,” Uncle Sirius says. “I screwed up.”

Silence takes over again, and Harry sits wide-eyed on the couch. It’s been a long time since they yelled this much.

“Shit,” his mum says suddenly.

Uncle Sirius looks up from where he was staring at his shoes. “What?”

“If he knows exactly who you are –” she holds up a finger when Uncle Sirius opens his mouth, “and I imagine he knows _exactly_ who you are, _Mr. Lourde_ – then…”

Uncle Sirius looks at Harry’s mum, then at Harry, and panic crashes onto his face. “Shit!”

With a crack, Uncle Sirius is gone, his dirty bootprints on the kitchen floor the only sign he’d ever been there at all. His mum just melts. She lands softly on the sofa next to Harry, wrapping an arm around him and pressing her face into his hair.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she whispers. “But we’ve got to leave now.”

Harry lays a hand on her arm and pats awkwardly, the way Uncle Sirius sometimes does. “It’s okay,” he says.

His mum laughs a little at that, and kisses his forehead. “You did really well today,” she tells him.

“Did I win?” Harry asks.

“You did,” she replies. “And I promised you a prize, didn’t I?”

Harry nods, and his mum sighs.

“I did.” She stands up then, tugging Harry with her. “And you’ll get one, just as soon as we get our stuff together, okay?”

“Where are we going?” Harry asks. His mum waves her wand once around the apartment, and things start shrinking, folding themselves into miniature versions of themselves.

“Somewhere new,” she says, walking towards his bedroom. “Somewhere safe.”

Harry follows, sees his entire room collapse to a size that would fit in his Uncle Sirius’s back pocket.

“And after that, if you stay very quiet, you’ll get a prize, okay? Does that sound good?”

Harry considers his room, practically empty now, and the way his mum’s eyes have gone red around the edges, and nods. “Fuck yeah.”


	3. Severus Snape

In March of 1980, a prophecy was spoken about a child that would be born with untold power. Severus Snape, who hated James Potter and his Order and his morals more than anything, told Tom Riddle first.

In July of 1980, a child was born with untold power. Severus Snape, who loved Lily Evans more than anything, told Albus Dumbledore second.

He apparates to the alley behind 3618 Adler Street in front of a nondescript black door. He holds his hand over the blank space where a handle ought to be, password quiet on his lips, and feels the locks twist and move beneath the wood. The door swings open, and Severus steps inside. Lupin is leaning against a steel work table, arms crossed, waiting for him. Immediately, the cool, searching probe of legillimency presses against Severus’s mind, and he slams down his shields, angry, as ever, at this little ritual. Across the kitchen, Lupin remains impassive.

“Must we do this little dance every time?” Severus asks.

Lupin shrugs. “What is it that batty old auror says? Constant vigilance?”

Severus rolls his eyes. “Surely you’ve more entertaining recreation to pursue.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Snape, I imagine your mind would be a most interesting diversion.”

Severus glares, and Remus smirks.

“So many secrets, after all.”

The hairs on the back of his neck begin to bristle uncomfortably, and Severus forces down a shiver. “Enough,” he says, cutting a hand through the air between them. “While you may delight in such schoolyard interactions, I’ve more pressing matters to attend to. And unless you’d rather I leave now...” He reaches a hand inside his robes to flash an opaque flask towards Lupin, “I’d suggest we get on with it.”

Lupin’s face hardens, and Severus can’t help the smile that creeps its way to his mouth.

“That’s what I thought.” He sets the flask down on the table next to Lupin. “Payment, then, if you please.”

With one hand, Lupin flicks the stopper out of the flask and inhales, before recoiling, nose wrinkled. “Marvelous,” he says, quickly re-stoppering it. “Just a moment.” He levers himself off the table and disappears through a curtain. 

Severus watches him go, hears the tell-tale sound of the till being opened, and then there’s a loud crack, as if someone has just apparated directly into the shop. This is followed by a slam, and then a thud, and Severus pushes through the curtain just in time to see Lupin slammed into a wall, head rebounding loudly against the plaster.

“Twice in one day, Mr. Lourde,” Lupin stutters through bloody teeth. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Severus does not know a Lourde, does not know how Lupin got himself mixed up in muggle fisticuffs, and he honestly does not care. What he does care about is getting paid. He grabs the man by the arm. “I’m afraid business hours are over,” he starts, yanking him around, but is suddenly paralyzed by the sight of a tattoo peeking out from underneath the sleeve of the man’s leather jacket. Antlers creep up the man’s wrist, and Severus drops his arm as if he’s been burned. “ _Black_ ,” he spits out. The man turns, and Severus watches as the hasty disillusionment charms melt away.

“Snape?” Black looks wildly between him and Lupin. “What the fuck?" 

“Mr. Lourde-” Lupin starts, pushing himself off the wall, but Severus cuts him off.

“All this time, all our searching, and you’ve been here in London.”

Black grins. “Hard to see what’s right under your nose when it’s that fucking big, eh Snivellus?”

Severus forces down the anger bubbling in his gut. “You still think this is a game? We’re long past your days of Hogwarts bullying, Black. I’ve got allies now, powerful allies, and your little gang got broken up long ago.” He sneers. “Or did you forget about dear, old, disappeared Potter?”

Black takes a menacing step forward, and Severus reaches for his wand, all thoughts of potion transactions forgotten, when Lupin steps between them.

“Now, now boys, what do we say we call it a night?” He places one firm hand on each of their chests and gives a little shove. “I’ll pay Mr. Snape for my perfectly legal potion, and we can all be on our merry way.”

“Your potion?” Black asks. “I thought you brewed your own? What potion?”

“You always have been unbearably dim,” Severus tells him.

Black growls in response, and Lupin shoves a little harder at them both, pushing Severus back into the menu board and sending chalk dust raining down on his hair. Severus glances up, the familiar glamours on the chalkboard beginning to flicker.

“Oh, fuck,” Black says then. “You’re not the potions master.”

“Honestly, and you wonder why your _agents_ keep getting bested.”

“Can it, Snivellus,” Black retorts, wand sliding into his hand. “I should have seen your greasy fingerprints on this from the start.”

“Enough,” Lupin says. “Nobody has done anything illegal here tonight, let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

Something flashes across Black’s face then, and he whirls around to point his wand at Lupin. 

“Is that right?” He asks lowly. “What about Dorcas then? Last time I checked, the law doesn’t have great things to say about murder.”

The shiver Severus had managed to suppress earlier wiggles its way down his spine. “Meadowes is dead?”

Black doesn’t turn. “Killed by your concoctions, no doubt.”

Lupin has brought a hand up to cover his mouth, eyes wide. “It couldn’t be… there was nothing lethal in any of the product…” His head swivels to the side, ignoring the wand pressed against his neck. “Severus?”

A scene from school flashes into Severus’s mind, a young girl being carried to the hospital wing, chocolates abandoned with her schoolbag in the corridor, a Valentine gone unanswered. “Meadowes was an unforeseen and…. unfortunate consequence,” Severus concedes.

“Unfortunate consequence?” Black roars, and Lupin flinches beneath him. “She was twenty-six years old!”

Lupin’s eyes are steely when they find his. “This was not part of our arrangement.”

“Our _arrangement_ ,” Severus spits, “is not dictated by your meager morality.”

“What the fuck?” Black asks again. “What arrangement?”

Severus sighs. “Is there any brain in there at all, Black? Or is it all just ego?”

Black ignores him to frown at Lupin. “He makes potions, you put them in the chocolates and sell them back to the Death Eaters, I got all that. What I don’t get is why.”

Lupin’s eyes fall shut and he brings a hand up to scrub at his face.

Severus grins. “You mean you haven’t told _Mr. Lourde_ about your little problem?"

“Severus,” Lupin says quietly.

“What problem?” Black asks.

“It’s nothing,” Lupin says.

“Oh, I can’t imagine the ministry would agree with that assessment,” Severus says.

“Does this have to do with your medical condition?” Black’s look of utter confusion is almost comical, and Severus snorts.

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

“Enough,” Lupin says, more forcefully now. “It’s nobody’s business.”

Black scoffs. “You’re selling black market potions out the back door of your chocolate shop.” His wand returns to Lupin’s face. “How much money would you say you make off that nobody’s business?”

Lupin opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. Black turns to Severus.

“And you,” he says darkly. “Always knew you were scum, but this seems like a new low.”

“Says the man currently shacked up with a mudblood,” Severus says cruelly, smiling because he knows that will make it worse, and he revels in the hurt and the anger radiating off Black in waves.

“That’s not-“ Black starts, and the angry retort Severus expects to come falls short. “How could you know?”

“The things I know would shock you.”

Black narrows his eyes. “Try me.”

And more than anything, Severus wants to rise to the dare, to spill even just one of the secrets he carries with him. Lupin is right. He has so many. But despite the delight such pettiness might earn him, he still has a transaction to attend to. So he chooses just the one, something small, something so mundane Black might just miss it. And he tells himself that makes it permissible. “Perhaps another time,” he says snidely. “You do owe me a pint, after all.”

He watches Black’s eyebrows furrow, his mouth open to retort, but further pleasure is dashed when the tattoo on Black’s wrist begins to glow a faint orange. Sirius winces and glances down, takes one last wild look at Severus, then Lupin, and disapparates.

Severus blinks at the spot where he just was, and turns to Lupin. “Yes, he has always been this dramatic.”

Lupin glares at him in response, taking a moment to straighten his shirt before opening the till with force. The drawer shoots out with a ding, muggle notes slotted in next to wizarding currency with the same organization of the kitchen, everything in its place. He hands Severus a stack of coins. “Consider this my final purchase.”

Severus raises a careful eyebrow. “And how do you propose to compensate my employers for your discontinued service?”

Lupin shoves the drawer closed with a crash. “I don’t.”

“You’ll find,” Severus says to him, turning to leave, “that my employer is not a man you want to be indebted to.” He can feel Lupin starting daggers into his back.

“So I’m gathering.”

Another scene, as fleeting as the last, comes to his mind, of the young girl, laughing atop a broom, Gryffindor robes blowing carefree behind her. He snaps back to the present, checking his mental shields for signs of weakness, but they remain as solid as ever, and the customary press of Lupin’s mind against his own is missing. He’s just remembering.

He leaves the shop the way he came, galleons clinking in his pocket. It’s not until he’s safely returned to his dismal flat that he remembers Dorcas Meadowes was not a Gryffindor. He leaves the galleons in his robe, turns off the light, and goes to bed, falling into fitful sleep, mind filled with dreams of lion hearted girls and long red hair.


	4. Lily Potter

Lily Evans always hated playing house. While her sister Petunia delighted in dressing up porcelain dolls and acting out elaborate domestic intrigue, Lily found it trite and unexciting. She liked games with a little more action.

It is with that irony in mind that she apparates to Little Whinging, Harry in her arms, and begins the slow walk towards Number 4.

Aside from the number hanging straight and pristine on the door, there is nothing to distinguish her sister’s house from any other residence on the street. There is a nondescript black sedan parked in the driveway, a blank welcome mat on the front step, and not even a stray leaf mars the impeccably mown front lawn. Lily has visited Privet Drive several times, but it still always feels like visiting a museum.

She hefts Harry a little higher on her hip and raps on the front door. There’s a moment where she knows someone is peering out the peephole, and then the telltale sign of several locks clicking before the door cracks open to reveal a large, angry looking man, walrus mustache twitching above his lips.

“Yes, what?” He asks impatiently, and Lily rolls her eyes.

“And hello to you, too, Vernon. Would you fetch Tuney for me?”

Vernon’s face goes red and pinched. “It’s too late in the day for company.”

“Oh for-“ Lily kicks the door inward, shoving Vernon to the side as she shoulders through. “Tuney?” She calls, ducking through the kitchen to the sitting room. “When are you going to reign in that oaf you call a husband?”

Petunia turns where she is sitting on the sofa, surprise painted on her face. “Lily?”

“Yeah, hey,” Lily says, setting Harry next to Dudley on the carpet. “Sorry for barging in, but I didn’t fancy hovering on your front stoop in the cold while your husband made up his mind.”

Petunia glances nervously down at the children, Dudley round and confused, Harry quiet and suspicious, before turning back to Lily. “What are you doing here?”

Lily drops down onto the sofa next to her sister. “It’s a long story.”

“James?” Petunia asks quietly.

“Yes and no,” Lily says, and when Petunia narrows her eyes, she adds, “He’s still gone, and we’re still in danger, but that’s really all I can tell you.”

Petunia crosses her arms and glares, and not for the first time, Lily balks before her older sister.

“Ugh, fine,” she says, shrugging her coat off. “But at least get me a glass of wine or something, because I absolutely cannot do this sober.”

“You’re pregnant, darling,” Petunia says archly.

Lily groans. “Fuck, that’s right.” She flops back further into the couch cushions, resigned. “Fine. Cuppa tea, at least, then.”

“Have you eaten?” Petunia asks, getting up to put the kettle on.

“We just ate our weight in chocolate, so we’re probably set for a bit,” Lily says ruefully, but she shoots a wink at Harry who had turned to smile at her.

“Mummy, I’m hungry,” Dudley says, petulant, and Petunia clucks at him.

“I’ll make you a snack, dear.” She looks down at Harry. “Harry, would you like a snack?”

Harry ignores her and turns to Lily, and Lily lets out a sad breath.

“These aren’t strangers, love,” she says softly. “It’s just Aunt Tuney.”

Harry blinks once, then nods.

“He’ll take a snack, thanks,” Lily tells her sister.

Petunia, for all that she looks concerned, just goes into the kitchen and begins preparing tea, and Lily lets her eyes fall shut, feels her heart rate start to fade back to something resembling normal, adrenaline finally dissipating after having rushed heady and unstoppable in the wake of Sirius’s realization.

“He’s quieter than I remember,” Petunia says, suddenly at Lily’s elbow, cup of tea in hand.

Lily takes it gratefully, cradles the warmth in her hands as she looks down at where Harry and Dudley have begun a tentative game on the rug. “His father disappeared and he’s been stuck in a secret apartment hideout for the last six months.”

Petunia places a plate of biscuits down next to the boys, and Lily snorts as Dudley immediately shoves three into his mouth. “Don’t eat too fast, darling,” Petunia says, and Dudley nods, but picks up another biscuit as soon as his mother’s turned around.

Harry regards Petunia and the plate carefully, before picking one up to gingerly take a bite.

Lily just shakes her head, sticks out her tongue at Harry to see him smile.

Petunia takes her seat on the sofa again. “So,” she says, taking a prim sip of tea. “Your husband has left you abandoned and endangered and-” She gives Lily a once over. “Seven months pregnant?”

“Only six,” Lily argues.

“Oh, well in that case,” Petunia says, pursing her lips.

“Tuney it’s-“ Lily grimaces, wishing she knew how to say what she needed to without sounding cruel. “You couldn’t understand.”

Petunia narrows her eyes. “Try me.”

Lily hesitates, but her sister just rolls her eyes.

“I’m not a child anymore, Lily,” Petunia says.

Harry is watching Dudley race Matchbox cars along the carpet, intent and focused, and Lily nods. “No,” she agrees, then, lowering her voice to a whisper, “They’re after Harry."

Petunia scoffs. “What could they possibly want with a five year old boy?”

“There was a… prediction,” Lily explains quietly. “About a child that would pose some kind of threat to Volde- to their leader.”

“And you think that’s Harry?” Petunia asks, incredulous.

“Their leader certainly thinks so,” Lily says. “So what I think doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“You’re his mother,” Petunia says.

“Yes, and I’m trying to keep him safe, so he can grow up to be a normal, boring boy who nobody wants to murder,” Lily says in a rush, and Petunia is quiet. “There’s a charm that keeps us hidden,” Lily tells her. “And the person that casts it keeps the secret – they’re the only one who can give us up. ” Lily exhales heavily, blowing ripples into her tea. “James keeps our secret.”

Petunia’s face shows no emotion, nothing at all to indicate she understands, or sympathizes, or wants to hear more. But Lily has been locked in an apartment with a child for six months and so she keeps talking.

“Everything was going okay until July,” she says. “There’s this potion, veritaserum, that makes you tell the truth. It’s illegal, but somehow they’ve found out how to get hold of it, and they’ve been stealing secrets from our people for months. We’d stayed safe because no one knew who our secret-keeper was, but once they knew it was James, well…” Lily shrugs, as if this is normal, as if it was what one should expect from marriage, motherhood.

Petunia has other thoughts. “So he just left?” she asks, disbelieving.

“He’s protecting us,” Lily counters. “And it’s not like he’s on vacation, Tuney. We’re being hunted, he’s trying to find us a way out.”

Petunia regards her skeptically from across the sofa, and Lily runs a hand, agitated, through tangled hair. “It’s not running away,” she says as much for herself as for her sister. “And it’s not just for us. If you only knew how many people have already gone missing-“ And then she sees her sister’s face beginning to pale and takes a breath, reminds herself that they are safe right now, that Harry is whole, if not altogether healthy, and that no one knows where they are. The tea is warm and familiar in her hands, and it takes her back to easier days with her sister, times of tea parties and confessions, before things became this complicated.

Petunia takes another sip of her tea, stares down into the cup and doesn’t look at Lily. “Why would you come here?”

And something in Lily’s heart breaks a little at that, has been breaking a little since she turned eleven and found out they’d never really understand each other again. And she wants to say something, anything that might bridge that rift, but she’s not sure she has the words. So she chooses a different truth, instead. “We’re not safe in magical London,” Lily explains. “And I know we’ll be safe here.”

Petunia looks around suddenly, as if just noticing something. “Have you enchanted my house?”

Lily laughs. “No, Tuney.” At her sister’s stricken look she continues. “I promise, truly, I haven’t. But there’s old magic, blood magic, that protects families. It keeps us safe here, keeps you safe, even if you don’t know it’s there.”

Petunia sniffs, shaken. “Well, it’s good to know you wouldn’t throw my family into abject danger, at least.”

“Of course not,” Lily says, laying a gentle hand on Petunia’s arm.

Petunia stares down at it and humphs, before taking another sip of tea. “So that’s why you’ve come.”

“Well, yes,” Lily admits, leaving her hand right where it is and squeezing. “But also because I trust you.” Petunia looks up then, and Lily smiles, small and only a little sad. “And I don’t trust very many, these days.”

Petunia blinks, sets her tea down gently on the coffee table, and covers Lily’s hand with her own. Lily watches Dudley reenact car crashes on the carpet, Harry pulling vehicles from the collisions to arrange them in neat, color-coded lines. She can see the moon starting to rise through the window and can’t quite believe that this morning she was eating careless chocolates in downtown London.

“It’ll be full soon,” Petunia says, and Lily nods, thinking about small boxes tied with twine, hidden in coat pockets and shopping baskets. For all Sirius’s fretting, he still seemed disappointed the weeks they didn’t come. The thought hits her suddenly, like a freight train, and any hopes of adrenaline fading are dashed.

“Tuney,” she says, turning quickly to her sister. “Do you have a calendar?”

By the time Petunia has retrieved it from the kitchen, Lily has already picked through the dates in her mind. She flips back to when the chocolates started arriving, then counting weeks until the time Sirius couldn’t find Lupin at the shop. He’d sulked for two days, Lily remembers, fingers flying down until they stop on the Monday, when Sirius had handed her a box of chocolates and she had written an angry diatribe against homophobic parenting. There, in the bottom corner of the grid square, is a small circular symbol with the words _Full Moon_ printed next to it.

Lily feels all the blood drain from her face. Ignoring the way Petunia is hovering over her shoulder, Lily pulls her wand from her boot and casts a patronus, shimmering doe bounding out the nearest window. Dudley looks up in astonishment from the floor, and Petunia gasps behind her.

“You know I don’t want that nonsense in my house,” Petunia hisses at the back of her head.

Lily ignores her, instead flipping forward in the calendar to that day’s date.

“Waxing gibbous,” Lily mutters, the tiny circle in the corner nearly entirely white, with a single sliver of black on one outside edge. “Shit.”

“What’s going on?” Petunia demands.

Lily rips this month and the next out of the calendar and folds them into quarters before shoving them in a pocket. “Say goodbye to your cousin, love,” she says, gesturing for Harry to get up from the carpet and pulling on her coat.

“Where are you going?” Petunia asks, growing ever more frantic.

“To find Sirius,” Lily replies, already pulling on her jacket. “You ready to play?” She says to Harry, who nods solemnly back at her.

Petunia is gripping the back of the sofa so hard her knuckles are turning white, and Lily has the sudden realization that she might not see her again. Ignoring all sounds of protest, she wraps Petunia in her arms and hugs her fiercely, plants one firm kiss on her cheek, and heads for the door.

“I don’t understand,” Petunia says after her, and Lily can feel tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. She’d never been a crier before. It must be something about being pregnant, she imagines. Or maybe it’s watching the way Harry’s eyes go steely and his frame goes small as they get nearer the front door. Or maybe it’s the way her sister is calling after her, Dudley growing antsy as his mother wails. “Lily!”

She stops. She waits to hear the words, the ones that have been itching to trip off her own tongue all night, the _I love you’s,_ the _I’m sorry’s_ , the _please stay’s_ , but silence rings through the immaculate hallway, and Lily wipes hastily at her cheeks.

“Take care, Tuney,” she says, and reaches for the door. It’s as she’s turning the handle that the tattoo on her wrist begins to glow. She cries out in pain, hand dropping from the knob to clutch at her wrist, and she falls to her knees in Petunia’s foyer.

“Mummy!” Harry shouts, and Petunia finally lets go of the sofa to run into the hall.

“What is it?” She asks, hands hovering just over Lily’s shoulders as if she’s toxic. “Is it the baby?”

Lily shakes her head, and gently removes the hand covering her tattoo until the antlers are visible. “No,” she says, breathless. “It’s James.”

There’s a sudden, deafening crack directly outside the front door, and Petunia jumps. Vernon appears at the top of the stairs, emerging from the bedroom he’d been sulking in.

“What’s all this racket then?” He shouts.

Someone pounds on the front door. “Open this door Dursleys, or I’ll open it myself!”

Petunia’s hands do land on Lily’s shoulders then, squeezing hard and frightened, but Lily smiles, waves her wand at the door to unlock it.

An instant later, Sirius comes barging through, wand held aloft, swinging from Vernon, to Petunia, and finally to Lily. “Lils,” he says anxiously, and holds out his wrist, tattoo still glowing from underneath his shirt sleeve.

Lily nods. “Yeah,” she replies, “in a minute, that’s not why I called you.”

“What? But James-“

“Can wait!” Lily interrupts. “Sirius, listen, this is important.”

“More important than-“

“I’m pretty sure Lupin’s a werewolf.”

Sirius freezes mid-sentence, and stares.

“All the times he’s disappeared, the way you talk about his illness, the reason he never attended Hogwarts – it has to be.”

“Shit,” Sirius breathes.

“Language,” Harry says immediately.

Sirius reaches down to lay a hand on Harry’s head. “Sorry,” he tells him. “I was just there,” he says to Lily. “And Snape was there.”

Lily starts. “Severus?”

“The one and only,” Sirius grimaces, “and as slimy as ever. He’s brewing the potions Lupin’s adding to the chocolate.”

Lily shifts from her knees to properly sit, leaning back against Petunia’s legs where she’s been hovering. “It begs the questions then, is Lupin being threatened into business with the Death Eaters, or is he just, ya know…” she gestures regretfully at Sirius.

“Evil,” he finishes for her.

“Right.”

They both go silent after that. Sirius stares morosely at his shoes, hand still resting heavily atop Harry’s head, and Lily doesn’t know how far things got with Lupin, but she’s sure Sirius is in way too deep. She doesn’t know what to say, so she leans against her sister and sticks her tongue out at Harry and then Vernon’s voice booms down from where he’s been cowering on the top step.

“Enough!” He bellows. “I’ve had enough of this- this superstitious claptrap in my house!”

Lily rolls her eyes, and Sirius claps his hands over Harry’s ears before shouting back up the stairs at him.

“Oh, burn me at the stake, you fat bastard!”

Vernon sputters wildly, Petunia’s face goes ashen, and Lily laughs, because she doesn’t know what else to do. The tattoo on her wrist is still smarting, and the dull yellow on Sirius’s arm tells her the same. Somewhere, James is asking for help. Somewhere, too, her childhood friend is brewing veritaserum for the enemy and a werewolf is stalking her roommate. And Lily is paid to give wise and grounding advice, but here, in the face of absolute and endangering chaos, she is at a loss.

But then Harry is tugging on her shirtsleeve. “Wolf,” he says, pointing towards the door.

An enormous silver patronus bounds into the foyer, and a frantic Dudley begins to scream wildly behind his mother.

An unnervingly familiar voice suddenly echoes into the hallway. _“I’ve found something that belongs to you,”_ the wolf says. _“Come at once.”_

Lily gasps, something wild and determined flaring in her chest, and begins to struggle to her feet, but her sister’s hands hold her down. “Tuney,” she says, frantic, “let go.”

“You are in no condition!” Her sister hisses.

“Sirius,” she starts, turning to him. “We have to-“ but Sirius shakes his head.

“She’s right,” he cuts in. “Stay here.”

“No!” Lily shouts, her sister’s fingers digging ever harder into her shoulders. “It’s James! You know it’s James! We have to find him! We have to protect him!”

“No,” Sirius says firmly, so unlike the wavering man of a few moments ago, and then he is pushing Harry into her arms. “You have to protect _him._ ”

Harry looks up at her with wide, wet eyes, and Lily chokes. “James-“

“I’ll find him,” Sirius promises. He leans down to place a hard kiss against her forehead. “Don’t leave the house,” he warns, and then he is gone.

Lily winds tight arms around her son, lets Petunia grip bruises into her skin, and cries.


	5. James Potter

James Potter has never been very good at remembering. He forgets birthdays, anniversaries, names of colleagues, and everything that he’s ever been tested on approximately twenty minutes after having been tested. But when his son was born, he swore that was going to change. He remembers Harry’s first steps, his first word (it was “fuck,” much to his mother’s dismay), his first haircut, his first broom. And he remembers his wife’s laugh, the funny shaped birthmark on the back of her thigh, her favorite ice cream flavor, the way she takes her tea (too bitter, with a splash of milk). He was sure he’d remember everything, forever.

But James Potter hasn’t seen his family in six months, and he’s starting to forget.

It’s an unseasonably warm February day in Paris, a fact which James is grateful for as his watch marks the fifth hour he’s been hovering, invisible, outside the Young and Happy Youth Hostel. His wizarding contact at the Grand Mosque had tipped him off to some potential leads (after insisting he partake of a hot meal, at least), and James has been waiting for some sign of them all morning. He yawns, watches yet another herd of vacationing muggles exit the hostel, and sighs.

Today is his last day in Paris for a while, and he can’t wait here much longer. He still has to get back to the Mosque to say his goodbyes to Sofian, and he has another lead to follow up on in the third arrondissement later that afternoon. James checks his wrist again, where his transfigured pocket watch is secured with a magically impenetrable leather strap. It’s a dead match for Sirius’s, the boys having received them together at seventeen from the Potter’s. James shakes his arm out a little, muscles cramping from standing still so long, and calculates how much longer he can afford to linger. It’s then that two young men push their way out onto the street, their oddly chosen outfits setting them apart from the standard traveler. Muggle clothes are a must for those wizards wanting to blend in, but they rarely wear them correctly at the start, a fact for which James is continuously grateful.

He follows them for several blocks, past the Grand Mosque and into the botanical gardens, until finally they arrive in an area James deems adequately secluded. He casts a quick muffliato, followed by the standard muggle repellant spells, and flips down the hood of the cloak. One of the men notices him right away and begins fumbling with the unfamiliar zipper on his neon fanny pack, and James reigns in a laugh before unbuttoning the rest of his cloak.

“Calm down, I’m a friend,” he says to them in French, and the man’s hand stills, his companion finally turning around next to him. “My name’s Yakub,” His Arabic name rolls off his tongue with ease, and he raises his arms in the universal I-come-in-peace symbol. “Sofian sent me.”

At this, at least, the men seem to relax marginally, the first even extending a cautious hand to James. “Assalamu ‘alaikum.”

“Wa’alaikum assalam,” James replies, giving the man’s hand a firm shake, and he can feel the tension begin to slip away.

“What can we do for you, brother?”

James, French rusty despite his six months of practice, asks, “What do you know of the war?”

“Your English war?” the man replies, and James nods. “It is growing,” the man says. “Your island no longer contains it.” He gestures to his companion. “It is why we are here.”

James nods again. “And me.”

“You are a refugee?”

“A target,” James clarifies. “I’m trying to find a way out.”

The man spreads his arms and gestures to the gardens. “Is France not far enough?”

“My family is still in England,” James explains, long unseen faces swimming in his mind again. “My wife, my son.”

The second man, who has been quiet until now, speaks up. “They are not the only ones.”

“No,” James concedes. “Which is why I’m here.”

“You’re asking us to aid in their escape?” the first man asks, concerned.

James smiles, small and grateful. “I’m asking for your hospitality.”

Twenty minutes later, when James has secured a tentative promise to pass on his message, he bids them farewell. He walks the last few blocks back to the mosque, invisible again, and taps his wand on a series of nondescript bricks. The wall begins to rearrange itself, and James slips through the narrow passage that appears, bricks closing in quickly behind him. Sofian smiles in his general direction.

“And how did you find my friends, then, Yakub?”

James slips off the invisibility cloak and takes the proffered cushion. “Helpful, I think. Thanks for the tip.”

“Of course, of course.” Sofian holds up an ornate teapot in question. “Tea?”

“Yes, please,” James says, and breathes in the comforting scent of peppermint as it steams up from his glass. It smells like his mother’s kitchen, warm and inviting and so very long ago.

“So,” Sofian says, settling back in his seat. “You’re leaving Paris once again.”

James sighs. “You know I can’t stay anywhere too long,” he replies.

Sofian hums softly in reply, nodding his head. “And where are you headed next?”

“And you know I can’t tell you that,” James chides, and Sofian smiles knowingly over his cup.

“And yet I never cease to try,” he agrees. “At least stay for lunch,” he says, waving a hand over the table between them. A tempting array of food appears out of nowhere, and James is reminded of Hogwarts feasts, of happy nights at long tables, Sirius and Lily bickering beside him. “I mustn’t have your mother thinking ill of me, after all,” Sofian adds genially.

James doesn’t have the heart to tell him that his mother isn’t thinking ill of anyone anymore, that his parents had perished in the opening days of the war, the first unsuspecting victims of prophecies and bigotry. Instead, he thanks him, eats his fill, makes Sofian laugh with stories of his son, and ignores the way Harry’s image shifts and blurs in his mind.

His watch begins to vibrate against his wrist, and James taps it once with a finger to turn off the alarm.

“The time has come, then,” Sofian says sadly.

“Your kindness, as always, is staggering,” James says, reaching over to clasp Sofian’s hand.

“It is nothing.”

“It is everything,” James corrects. “I’m sure I’ll never be able to repay you.”

Sofian tsks at that, slapping James lightly on the hand. “Live, Yakub. That is payment enough.” He turns James’s palm over and drops a small bracelet into it. “A blessing, for your son,” he says, and James can feel the magic woven into the fibers, protections and charms running through it. “May it keep him holy, and beyond any harm.”

“Thank you,” James says, slow and sincere, and Sofian smiles, places a gentle hand over’s James’s hair.

“Fi amanillah,” he says, magic running from his fingers down James’s spine, and it is another blessing, another gift James will never be able to pay back. “I will see you again,” Sofian tells him, sure, and James wills himself to believe it.

When he slips back out into the Paris streets, it is colder, clouds gathering overhead, promising rain. Even so, James takes his time. He walks north, through winding drives and across the Seine, dodging the gaping tourists clustered outside Notre Dame, until he enters the third arrondissement. He cuts left at Rue de Montmorency, bustle and traffic all but disappeared along the narrow street. He’s about ten feet away when the wards around the house shimmer and bend, and James steps through before removing his cloak. Regulus is already waiting for him outside.

“Seems rather a conspicuous choice, don’t you think?” Regulus asks, gesturing to the sign hanging above a window, _Auberge Nicolas Flamel_ printed on it in gold.

James shrugs. “It’s already got its own safeguards,” he explains. “Meant to protect the wandering and less-fortunate.” He gestures jokingly to himself, and Regulus raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to you leave Paris without seeing some of the sights.”

Regulus stares back at him, weary. “Forgive me for my lack of interest in your historical excursions, but we’re here on business, are we not?” He leans back to wrinkle his nose at the darkening clouds overhead. “And I should like to finish before the deluge, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on, mate,” and reigns in his delight at Regulus’s rapidly reddening face. “You’ve got my money, then?”

Regulus glares, but reaches into the pocket of his robes to pull out a jangling cloth pouch. “You’ve got my intel?”

James reaches into his jeans pockets for the vial he’d stashed there this morning, slivery blue memories swirling around inside. “Names and last known locations of reported sympathizers, as promised.”

Regulus plucks the vial out of James’s hand and tosses him the galleons. “I trust you’ll be sharing this information with dear, old Albus as well?”

“You know,” James says, peering into the pouch before shoving it into his jacket, satisfied. “You don’t have to do this alone. The Order would be glad to have you.”

A look of utter disgust passes over Regulus’s face. “As if I would voluntarily rub elbows with your foolish band of soldiers.”

James rolls his eyes. “We’re fighting on the same side, Reg,” He gets another glare at the nickname, but carries on. “The enemy of my enemy, etcetera.”

Regulus scoffs. “And how would it look to the Dark Lord if I was caught cavorting around with Gryffindors and muggle-borns?”

“Like you were starting a cross-cultural Quidditch league?” James tries to suggest, but the sentence comes out garbled and slow, as if the air around them were too thick for sound. James’s eyes widen, and he has a moment to see Regulus’s terrified face before three cloaked figures apparate just outside the wards. He tries to shout, sees Regulus’s mouth moving just feet away, but no sound is coming out. James tries in vain to reach for his wand, but his hands are sluggish and unresponsive, and he can feel the wards shattering around them.

One of the hoods walks calmly over to Regulus, a long, manicured finger running lazily down his cheek, and whispers above the silence, “I imagine it would look something like this.” Then the hand clamps down on Regulus’s arm, and they both disappear with a crack. The other two figures come up behind James, firm grips settle on his shoulders, and the world goes black around him.


	6. Remus Lupin

Remus Lupin has been tempering chocolate since he’s been old enough to use a stove. Under the watchful eye of his father, he had learned the important lessons early. There are no magic tricks, no shortcuts, no methods that matter except careful and meticulous exactitude. And even then, sometimes your chocolate will seize, sometimes your batch will be ruined, sometimes you’ll have to start from scratch. It is, at its core, an act of patience.

Remus Lupin is nothing if not patient.

The chocolate shop is blissfully quiet in Severus’s absence, and Remus takes it as an opportunity to tidy the mess that has been made in the squabble. He straightens the smudged menu board, restoring brushed off letters with a flick of his wand, and replaces the items knocked off the counter by the sudden bout of fisticuffs. With a last glance at the front door to ensure the locks and wards are in place, he dims the front shop lights and retreats to the kitchen, potion flask in hand. He downs the vile concoction in one swig, no more accustomed to the acrid flavor than he was at first taste, but grateful for its effects nonetheless. With just days to the moon, he can feel the wolf already stirring in his soul. Everything seems heightened, sharpened, like claws and teeth snapping to get out. Remus clenches his hands into fists, presses blunt nails against his skin, and turns on the stove.

He’s three degrees away from a perfect temper when the back door swings open to reveal Severus, out of breath and obviously unnerved, an unfamiliar man draped haphazardly around his shoulders by the arm. Severus is holding onto his waist by the fabric of his shirt, the man’s shoes fumbling for solid footing underneath him.

Remus drops his spatula. “Severus-“ he starts, but is immediately cut off.

“Ward the door,” he says, low and urgent. “Strong as you can.”

Remus doesn’t hesitate, and the door shuts with a satisfying click before the frame dissipates entirely into the wall around it, as if it’d never been there at all.

“Help me with this,” Severus says, nodding down at the man, and Remus wraps his arm around his shoulders, bearing as much weight as he can. Together, they carry him awkwardly to a storage pantry, sacks of chocolate piled up in teetering towers. Remus flicks a hand towards the nearest stack, and the bags rearrange themselves to be as close to a mattress as they can hope for. Transfiguration has never been his strong suit. Gently, and not before nearly falling over in the process, they manage to lower the man down onto it, and Remus notices for the first time that he’s mumbling something, over and over, unfamiliar to Remus’s ears. He turns to Severus, who’s panting from exertion.

“Who is this?”

Severus schools his face back to its default expression of chilly disdain, and sniffs. “It’s James Potter.”

Remus brings a hand up to his mouth, eyes widening. “My god,” he murmurs. He can’t seem to tear his gaze away from the man, tossing and turning on his storeroom floor. “Why is he here?”

Severus’s absentminded frown curls into a sneer. “I’m to extract a confession,” he says, “And there isn’t time to brew new veritaserum. Our only stock is here.” He smiles coldly at Remus. “My employers have been led to believe that I’m the only man you will trust.”

“From the looks of it, there’s been some pretty monstrous extraction techniques applied already,” Remus says darkly, eyes fixed on blooming bruises and sluggish blood, seeping into the sacks below him. “It’s a blessing he’s even breathing.”

“Well,” Severus says, apparently unconcerned. “You would know all about monstrous methods wouldn’t you?”

The wolf rears and snarls in Remus’s throat, and he swallows it down. “Why should I trust you?”

Severus regards him carefully, calculating, “I’m not the man you think I am.”

“And I told you I’m done,” Remus counters.

“That’s why I’ve come,” Severus says, slowly, as if speaking to a child. “You know how to get hold of his cohort?”

Remus nods, wary.

“Then do it. We haven’t much time.”

Steeling himself, Remus lifts his wand and summons up a memory – the first taste of chocolate on his tongue, bitter and smooth – and a silver wolf bounds into existence. “I’ve found something that belongs to you,” he tells it. “Come at once.” It nods once, as if in understanding, before fading through a wall and out into the streets.

Severus smiles, jeering and contemptuous. “Nothing but a beast through and through then, aren’t you?”

“Maybe so,” Remus admits. “But I was made this way by force. You became a monster by choice.”

Severus opens his mouth to retort, but then James is groaning, sitting up, struggling to standing, and Remus has to hold him down against the chocolate sacks before he does himself an injury.

“Easy there, mate, take it easy,” he says, as soothing as he can be.

James stares up at him, eyes wild. “Don’t let them find him,” he says, hoarse and hysterical. “You can’t let them find him.”

Remus places a gentle hand on James’s back. “Find who?”

There’s a sudden bang from the front of the shop, as if someone is trying to bodily kick their way in.

Remus quickly lifts his wand. “Revelio,” he murmurs, and an image shimmers into clarity in front of him, displaying a disheveled and increasingly agitated Sirius slamming his boot repeatedly into the locked door. “Patere,” Remus says, and on the next kick Sirius’s foot goes completely through the wood like water, the rest of Sirius tripping in after it.

There is shouting from the storefront. “Lupin!"

“Back here!” Remus yells in return, and then Sirius appears in the door to the storeroom, deranged and angrier than Remus has ever seen him. Sirius’s eyes swivel from Remus, to Severus, and finally to James, and it’s like the rage just melts away from him.

“Prongs,” he says, breathless.

“Hey, Padfoot,” James says, and the smile that appears changes his face entirely.

Sirius is past him in an instant, pulling James into his arms, hands clutching at his shirt, and Remus feels like he oughtn’t be watching.

“Harry,” James says urgently, hand nudging weakly at Sirius’s shoulder. “Lily, where-“

“I left them with Petunia,” Sirius says, and he’s got James’s face in his hands like he can’t believe he’s really there. “We got your S.O.S., and then Lupin’s patronus, but I didn’t know what I’d be walking into.” Then, louder, he asks, “What am I walking into, Lupin?”

Remus exhales loudly, shrugging his shoulders in defeat. “Bugger if I know. Severus?”

Abruptly, as if just remembering the fourth man in the room, Sirius levels his wand at Severus, who has been slinking further and further into the dark corner of the storeroom.

Severus sneers back at him, but it’s belied by his placating hands, held up in mock surrender. “He was discovered in Paris while meeting with a known traitor to the cause.”

James inhales sharply, tightens his hands on Sirius’s sleeves. “It was Reg,” he whispers.

Sirius whips his head around, eyes wide with shock. “What?”

“The Dark Lord suspected him of betrayal.” Severus hitched a shoulder in a casual shrug. “He was right.”

Sirius moved as if to strike him, but James dropped his forehead against Sirius’s shoulder, holding him in place. “That’s how they found me,” James said feebly.

“We’d been tracking Black for weeks,” Severus concurs, emotionless. “But we couldn’t have known he’d lead us straight to the Dark Lord’s most coveted asset.”

“Where is he?” Sirius demands, and Remus is surprised to see Severus hesitate, eyes flicking to the door before he answers.

“Dead,” he says quietly.

Sirius sucks in a breath, and James begins murmuring a litany of apologies into Sirius’s shirt.

“I am… sorry – for your loss” Severus forces out, words halting and awkward and sincere, Remus believes. “But there isn’t time for this now.”

Sirius coughs once, wipes briskly at his eyes, and stands. “Can I apparate?”

“The wards will recognize you,” Remus confirms.

“And Lily? Harry?”

Remus nods. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Sirius squeezes James’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” he says, firm and unyielding, and James shakes his head once, pulls himself together. “I’ll be right back,” Sirius tells him, and then with a crack he’s gone.

James blinks, watery and myopic, at Remus, who lifts a hand in greeting.

“Hello,” he says. “I’m Remus.”

The air sizzles loudly with magic and then Sirius has reappeared, Lily at his side and Harry in her arms.

“Abba!” Harry says reaching over her shoulder towards James, and Lily whirls around.

“James,” she says, breathless and disbelieving.

Harry wiggles his way out of her arms and onto the makeshift mattress, climbing into James’s lap.

James, for his part, hides the pain as tiny feet hit fresh wounds and clutches fiercely onto Harry. “I’ve missed you too, kid,” he mutters into his hair, and once again Remus feels like he’s witnessing something too personal.

Lily’s hands tremble as they reach for him, and James stretches a tired arm out to meet her, pull her in, press shaky kisses against her hairline. “Hello, love,” he says.

Next to Remus, Sirius has his hands stuffed into his pockets, and Remus fights the urge to reach out and comfort him. His mind, normally cluttered and open like the pages of a journal, has slammed shut against Remus’s probing. He’s surprised to find he misses it.

From the corner, Severus clears his throat. “Not to break up this touching reunion, but as I’ve said, time is not our ally tonight.”

Lily keeps her hands tangled up in James’s, and turns to look at Severus. “You brought him here?”

Severus pauses, nods, and Lily shakes her head in confusion.

“Why are you helping us?”

Severus seems, for a moment, at a loss for words, and if that alone is uncharacteristic of the man Remus knows, what he eventually says is even more so.

“I have made a great many mistakes,” Severus says, looking resolutely at a point just over Lily’s shoulder. “Many of which have hurt you. But we were friends, once.”

Remus sees his hands clenching, white knuckled, at his sides, and thinks he understands.

“Perhaps I am seeking penance.”

On a different night, at a different time. Remus imagines Lily might have hugged him. Instead, she simply says, “Thank you,” and Severus turns away.

“Go,” he tells her. “I’m expected back, and I can only slow him down.”

“Go where?” Sirius cuts in sharply. “The apartment’s been compromised, the Fidelius is down, and there are no safe houses left in London.”

“Paris,” James says.

“But Reg-“ Sirius starts, but James stops him again.

“We won’t stay long, I promise, but there’s someone there who can help us. He’ll have a place we can go.”

Lily nods, understanding. “How far?”

“Far enough, hopefully.” He looks down at Harry, who’s been watching the adults fearfully from his father’s lap. “You ready for an adventure?”

Harry nods once, sure. “Fuck yeah,” he whispers.

James laughs, loud and delighted, and Remus thinks he can see the man he was, the man he must have been to have survived six months undercover, to have earned the love and trust of someone like Sirius, a woman like Lily, and so unlike the quiet, broken man he’d carried into the pantry.

“Pads,” James says, turning to Sirius, but Sirius waves him off.

“Don’t tell me,” he says gruffly. “You know I’m rubbish at secrets.”

James grins, cheeks red and tear-stained. “I will see you again,” he says.

“You bet your arse you will,” Sirius replies, eyes turning to Lily. “And Lils, darling, try not to weep without me.”

“I’ll weep with joy, you daft cow.”

“That’s the saucy tart I know and love,” Sirius says, watery and fond.

“Do you two need a moment?” James asks, joking, and Sirius is about to retort when there’s a groan from the corner.

“What part of _there’s no time_ do you imbeciles not understand?” Severus grits out.

“Right then,” James says gruffly. “Lils, if you would?”

“Right.” Lily grasps Harry and James firmly in either hand, gives Sirius one final wink, and disapparates.

Startling silence descends on the storeroom.

Severus speaks up first.

“I will buy you what time I can,” he tells them both, and then he, too, is gone, eddies of dust the only evidence he’d ever been there at all.

Remus takes one calming breath, then another, until he can feel the wolf begin to settle again. Sirius is motionless next to him.

“So,” Remus says into the silence. “You lied to me.”

Sirius snorts. “It’s going around.”

Remus nods, conceding that point. “But the greater good?” he presses. “That’s not what you’re fighting for.”

The transfigured chocolate sacks still hold the impression of a recently departed body, and Sirius shakes his head. “No,” he concedes, but then he’s shrugging off the moment like a bad dream, and rounding on Remus. “What about you then?”

“What about me?”

“Has anything you’ve said been the truth?”

Remus considers that for a moment. “I’m not a squib,” he replies.

Sirius just rolls his eyes, though. “Fuck off.”

Remus lifts his hands in offering. “What is it that you want, Mr. Black?”

“Some fucking honesty would be nice,” Sirius growls.

“You would not like me when I’m honest,” Remus says, low.

Sirius takes two quick steps forward, and the pantry becomes two times smaller. “Try me.”

The smile comes unbidden to Remus’s lips, sinister in its slant. “Okay,” he says lightly. “Do you know why your beloved Dumbledore didn’t offer to be your secret keeper?”

Sirius balks slightly at that, but doesn’t back down. “What?”

“Instead of James, that is. It could have been Dumbledore. He’s the most powerful wizard in Britain. He could have kept a family together. Do you know why he didn’t?”

Sirius shakes his head.

“I do.” Remus says. “It’s because he would _tell_.” Confusion, and then realization bloom across Sirius’s face, and Remus hates the smug satisfaction it fills him with, hates the pretension of a man so ruthless and so admired. “If it came down to your little family and the _greater good_ , you would lose. Every time.”

“It’s-“ Sirius stumbles. “It’s not that simple.”

“It has to be that simple,” Remus demands. “That’s why we fight.”

Sirius laughs, untrue and biting. “You don’t fight for anything!”

Remus, who since the age of five has learned to keep a tight lid on his temper, can feel it snap. “I fight for everything!” he growls.

Sirius takes a quick step back, and Remus knows he sees it, the wolf. No longer lurking beneath the surface, it’s snarling, snapping, teeth bared.

“I’m fighting for my life!” Remus shouts. “And I’m doing it on my own because neither side of your foolish fight thinks I deserve to have one!”

“That’s not-“ Sirius starts, but he’s cut off.

“True?” Remus asks, incredulous. “Of course it is. Dumbledore cares about my life so long as it proves valuable to him, and Voldemort does the same. I do what I must to survive.”

“And dash the consequences?” Sirius adds darkly.

Remus sighs. “I am sorry for any part I played in the death of your friend,” he says, sincere. “But she volunteered, as did you. And whether you accept it or not, you are all just pawns, at the mercy of a cunning king.”

Sirius drops suddenly, disappearing from Remus’s eye line as he sits down heavily on a stack of cocoa. “What’s the alternative?” He asks, desolate.

Remus sits down across from him and shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

The uncomfortable silence descends once more upon the pantry, and Remus doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where they go from here. His arrangement with the Death Eaters is compromised, as is Severus’s tentative position as an informant, and yet he can’t imagine leaving. His life’s work is here, and it is not brave, perhaps, or important, but it makes people happy. And in a life so bereft of happiness for so long, Remus is reluctant to give it all up.

“I’ve seen it, you know,” Sirius says unexpectedly.

“Seen what?” Remus replies automatically, still caught up in his own thoughts.

“A transformation.”

Remus jerks his head up at that. “What? How?”

“Years ago,” Sirius says, quiet. “I ran reconnaissance for Dumbledore on the packs in the mountains.”

Remus knows his surprise must be visible on his face, but he can’t help it. He’s seen those communities. “They don’t take kindly to outsiders.”

“That’s for sure,” Sirius replies, and he hitches a shoulder lightly, giving a little wince.

If Remus wasn’t against Dumbledore’s methods before, this would have ensured it. “That’s a suicide mission,” Remus says softly.

Sirius just shrugs. “I didn’t have much to live for. I was eighteen, disowned, jobless, and a man I trusted told me it would help.”

Remus’s eyes go dark, and Sirius quirks up one corner of his mouth in response.

“And I have a special skill set, as it were.”

“And what would that be?”

Magic suddenly crackles sharp and static in the air, and before Remus even thinks to reach for his wand, Sirius’s form begins to shift and twist until the man Sirius is gone, replaced by an enormous black dog, standing tall and proud before him.

And with each passing second Remus’s carefully constructed world is falling down around him, so he can’t help it. He brings a shaky hand to his mouth, an uncontrollable giggle bursting out from between his fingers.

The dog Sirius growls, and Remus waves a hand at him. “No, no,” he says quickly. “It’s not you. I mean it is, it’s just-“ he laughs again, mirth barking out of him in a way it hasn’t in so long. “Remus the wolf,” he says, hand on his chest, “and Sirius the dog.” He grins down at him. “It’s good to know the universe still has a sense of humor.”

Sirius cocks his head to the side in what Remus hopes is amusement, and then the dog is shifting back into the man, disheveled and heartbreakingly familiar.

“You were never working with the Death Eaters,” Sirius says, sure.

Remus shakes his head. “Severus discovered me, and my secret. He promised to brew the wolfsbane and to keep my name off the registry, and in exchange…”

“You gave them a way to smuggle veritaserum.”

Remus nods.

“Is that why you took so much interest in me?” Sirius asks. “Because I was a threat to your arrangement?”

“No, Mr. Black,” Remus says, chuckling.

“Then why?” Sirius asks, desperate.

Remus smiles, real and rare and foreign on his lips. “Because you were a threat to my heart.”

He watches something happen behind Sirius’s eyes, and then hears, “Were?”

Remus takes him in, flushed and exhausted, hair unkempt and two days worth of stubble on his cheeks. His glamours are down and his voice is his own and he looks defeated, and angry, and more beautiful than Remus has ever seen him. “Are,” Remus whispers.

And Sirius is standing, crowding into Remus’s space and pressing him back into the pantry wall. And Remus knees are bent at an odd angle, still half draped across a sack of chocolate, but Sirius’s mouth is right there and he doesn’t care. Sirius bypasses his mouth though to bury his face in the crook where Remus’s neck meets his shoulder, breathing him in.

“You smell like chocolate,” Sirius mutters against his skin.

“We’re standing in a cupboard full of chocolate,” Remus laughs, but tangles his fingers in his hair and tugs, too hard, until he can lean in and kiss him.

“No, you taste like chocolate, too” Sirius says against his lips, and Remus kisses him again, pushes him back, out of the pantry. They stagger their way up the back stairs, pausing only so Remus can unlock the door, and then Sirius is pushing him into his flat, kicking the door shut behind them.

“There’s not enough time,” Remus tells him, hands running wild, like they can’t decide what to touch. “Severus-“

Sirius groans loudly. “Jesus, Merlin, and Joseph, could you not? That is not what I want to be picturing right now.”

“But we have to-“

A warm hand is clapped over Remus’s mouth and he’s prevented from finishing.

“Shut up,” Sirius says, moving them both steadily toward the beat up sofa behind them. “Everything is gone,” he whispers. “My mates are on the run, my godson is wanted by a mass murderer, and my brother-“ his voice cracks and he trails off. “I want this. Just tonight.” He slowly lowers his hand, freeing Remus’s mouth again. “Let’s just have this,” he breathes.

And Remus has built a life on knowing what people want, what they need. He can box it up and stick a price tag on it and be confident that he has chosen correctly. But Sirius - there is no way to contain this want, no value to it other than this moment, and he is confident his heart has chosen wrong, that the only way for this to end is badly. And there’s absolutely no way he can refuse. So he nods, kisses Sirius, pulls him down onto the sofa and forgets about everything else. He forgets the chocolate he’s left on the table downstairs, solid now and unsalvageable. He forgets Severus’s promise, the ticking clock of time carefully bought rounding its last hour. He forgets that somewhere, outside the shuttered windows of the chocolate shop’s small flat, the war rages on, untempered.

In the wee hours of the morning, Sirius will leave, new bruises on Remus’s neck the only evidence he’d been there at all. The sun will rise on dark alleys and friendly storefronts, where illegal curses are exchanged like handshakes, information hopping from hand to hand like germs. This is not a happily ever after. Like tempered chocolate, it is fickle, careful, ready to snap.

Hundreds of miles from London, on their way to a new beginning, a young family will appear on the cobblestone street outside the oldest house in Paris. There, with stone angels peering down solemn and resolute from its walls, they will retrieve a forgotten invisibility cloak, a threadbare blessing tucked safely in the pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading! Leave a comment, make an author's day.


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